Said the Prosecutor to the Officer
by papercrimes
Summary: SVU's new assistant district attorney, Dominick Carisi, attempts to make a good first impression with seasoned detective Rafael Barba. [Roleswap AU, oneshot.]


**Notes** : Arching here as it's also on AO3. Though roleswaps aren't usually my thing, I wanted to give this one a try.  
 **Pairings** : I imagine Barisi happens in this verse, but it's not explicit here. So could be read as pre-Barisi?  
 **Warnings** : Nothing particular, but read at own risk anyway.

* * *

 **Said the Prosecutor to the Officer**

* * *

"What're you drinking, detective?"

It's a deceptively casual question, designed to interrupt any actual drinking, at least for the time being. Glass halfway to his lips, Rafael Barba finds himself pausing, gaze flickering towards the source of the voice – and then he lowers said glass towards the bar again. Four words shouldn't benearly this irritating and, admittedly, they wouldn't be so bothersome if they'd only come from someone else.

What're you drinking indeed. As he merely gestures to the rather distinctive vision of scotch and ice, Barba thinks the answer should be obvious.

ADA Dominick Carisi looks more out of place than usual, standing beside Rafael's barstool, and that's saying something when he usually has all the natural flair of a newborn giraffe. A guy can get away with a shirt and tie in a bar like this – it's why the squad frequents the place after clocking out – but the combination of waistcoat and three-quarter sleeves Carisi sports looks tacky in low lighting, and tackier in the courtroom.

Lord knows how he's going to secure a conviction.

"Nice," is all Carisi says at first, and though his smile is misleadingly warm, it doesn't reach his eyes. Rafael infers that he's not a scotch person, which is only confirmed when he goes on, "I'm more of a beer person."

Perhaps expecting something more (or maybe an explanation for why the ADA is here at all), Rafael stares at him a moment longer. When Carisi only stares back, all vapid smiles, Rafael raises a brow.

"So." Carisi speaks, and then Carisi gestures to the vacant barstool he's hovering behind. "Mind if I join you?"

Oh. So that's what he was waiting for.

"All right." Rafael hitches one shoulder, an approximation of a shrug. "Just you, Counsellor?"

"Call me Sonny," says Carisi. "And – yeah, I guess. For now. The Lieutenant said she might swing by."

If the minor jolt he gives next is anything to go by, his knee knocks against the stool as he stumbles over himself to take it, but Rafael knows better than to watch. And thankfully, Rafael also knows better than to smirk into his drink as he lifts it to take a sip – because Liv has no intention of coming here.

His Lieutenant is a good woman, but she's not a saint; she's never been one for socialising with nervous new ADAs just because they're still green enough to warrant pity. A glance towards the other end of the bar (to where Fin and Rollins are standing in some kind of procrastinator's conference) tells him Carisi likely invited himself anyway.

"I don't think I've ever even had scotch," Carisi is saying, now he's settled and analysing the kaleidoscope of bottles behind the bar. The assortment of booze isn't colour-coded, or even organised by height, but its sheer variety makes up for any visual shortcomings.

The attorney's declaration gives Rafael pause, because the solution should be obvious. He can hardly believe he has to point out, "Then don't order scotch."

"Yeah," Carisi says, and he turns his head to flash Barba a smile he probably thinks is charming. "But that kind of ruins the image, don't it? Two hardened agents of the law drinking scotch – there's a better ring to that."

Jesus. Barba hears his mother's idealistic advice in his ear, and not for the first time since Carisi first swept into the precinct, either. If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything.

It's not a rule he generally feels obliged to follow, but in this situation, the only thing he's thinking is how Carisi probably graduated from diapers around the same time he graduated from law school – and there is nothing particularly hardened about Barba, either, just because he isn't fawning over Carisi's decision to subject him to an unwanted drinking partner.

Of course, he's aware of his reputation. He wears cynicism around his neck like his dark silk ties, but no senior detective with his kind of resume would still be fresh-faced and eager. First homicide in his home Bronx, and then more of the same in Brooklyn, before Manhattan's SVU decided it could really do with more vaguely Spanish-sounding names on the pay roll.

Nothing shocks him any more, the level head of a frantic operation. A solver, even when the only thing for it is to play devil's advocate. He's given no indication that he wants to break that routine for Carisi, so it makes him question why the guy is sitting here to begin with, currently flagging the bartender down with a little too much enthusiasm (ordering beer, of course; not scotch).

But this is his downtime. Just because he tends to make enemies on the job doesn't mean it's intentional – or maybe he's simply feeling diplomatic today, but he figures small talk can't be stressful enough to induce that inevitable work-related aneurysm just yet.

"So," he begins, and he taps his glass against the bar to punctuate it. "How are you finding your first case with Manhattan's finest?"

From the corner of his eye, he sees Carisi's mouth quiver with the urge to smile. Whether it's one of scorn or agreement, Barba can't tell.

"It's... different. Before this, I mostly worked on drug cases, which is like..." Searching for his words, he waves his hands around briefly. "Still a lot of hedonism, but way fewer victims."

"So I heard," Barba replies – because he certainly recalls Liv's meek attempts at making Carisi sound more qualified. "Not what I'd call a natural step."

"You're telling me," Carisi says. An unreasonable grin shapes his tone. "But the DA told me this Unit doesn't have the greatest record with ADAs. I'm hoping I can break it."

Instinctively, Barba lets out a hum of agreement. He can't argue with that, after all: he's aware that when it comes to SVU's prosecutors, it's amassed a dead one, a disbarred one and an alcoholic along the way. Admittedly, most of those before his time.

"Good luck with that," he eventually says, when it becomes apparent Carisi's waiting on a response. He can't muster any real enthusiasm, but that doesn't matter – Carisi still lets out a little laugh, appreciative like it's not just a platitude.

"Yeah, I get it. We'll see. But you guys know how to put a case together, so I'm not worried just yet."

Like every other comment of Carisi's that rubs Barba the wrong way, that one's just a little too familiar for the detective's liking. Carisi speaks with an oblivious kind of confidence – like he's draped in the self-assurance of a kid who's probably never done wrong in his mother's eyes. Coddled.

The bartender returns with Carisi's drink, sparing Barba the inconvenience of having to formulate something prudent to say. He watches, not entirely disinterested, as Carisi pays with a banknote, all smiling and keep-the-change. His forearms are bare, Barba notes, sleeves rolled up even further to expose pale skin and long veins, and everything about him projects inoffensive friendliness – despite the lack of appreciation he receives from the weary server.

It's precisely that optimistic lack of self-awareness SVU isn't built to accommodate.

Carisi rests one elbow precariously on the edge of the bar, scratching absent-mindedly at his nape, as he downs his first mouthful from the dark amber bottle. He holds that precariously, too, lanky and loose.

How the hell, Barba thinks, is anyone meant to take this guy?

"Geez," Carisi breathes once he's done, throat bobbing in the aftermath. "Guess I needed that."

Barba flashes a smile, brief and humourless. It's something he can understand from anybody.

"A mutual sentiment."

"Yeah." Shifting on the barstool a little – it's like he can't get comfortable – Carisi presses the bottle against his temple. This venue is, admittedly, far too warm, and Barba glances at him, almost envious of how cool the glass must feel against Carisi's skin, streaked with condensation. "Say. Mind if I ask you something?"

"No doubt you're going to ask me anyway," Barba says. As expected, that display of reluctance is indirect enough to go right over Carisi's head.

"How long have you worked SVU for?"

"Huh," he says, and then, "Transferred in around the same time Detective Rollins did."

There is a multitude of things Carisi could've said next, but in the wake of what he does go for, Rafael can hardly believe what he's hearing.

"That's a little late in the day, isn't it?"

"Excuse me?"

"Not try'na be rude," Carisi insists, swiftly setting his drink down. Revealing, unexpectedly, he's apparently capable of self-awareness when he needs to be. "It's just – Liv was telling me about your track record. Some of the cases you've worked on? I studied them."

"Is that so," Barba says. He steeples his fingers over his glass, to give him somewhere to direct his gaze.

Carisi isn't the first person to ask him this, of course, though he's definitely the most shameless, considering the fact Barba hardly knows the guy. After all, it's true that Barba is ambitious. A favourable contender for sergeant – and beyond – if only he'd found a department to stick with.

The neighbourhood he'd come from had made crime seem like the centre of the universe, carrying a silent expectation that kids there would be taking one side or the other, soon enough. He'd considered work in Carisi's area, at one point... but he hadn't, in all good conscience, been able to leave his gentle mother with his brutish father to gallivant off for law school.

Perhaps that's why SVU cases rarely surprise him.

Besides, it isn't like he hasn't considered the sergeant's exam. When he confides in someone that he's been studying, however (or perhaps he'll simply announce he's put in for it, a characteristic bolt out of the blue), he doubts it'll be to someone like Carisi. There's no guarantee the prosecutor will even be around SVU long enough to see that day come.

"I enjoy what I do," he goes on, eventually. He's attentive enough to notice that Carisi is taking an enthusiastic swig of his drink, just to fill the abruptly heavy silence with action – having realised, perhaps, that he's put his foot in his mouth as well as that beer bottle. "I'm good at what I do. Besides—" Opting to fight candour with candour, he looks at Carisi dead-on, brow fractionally up. "Narcotics to SVU. Isn't that a prosecutorial anomaly?"

He stresses the word with temperate malice, because in all honesty, he'd already been harbouring suspicions. It sometimes feels like the DA expects pathetic success rates from SVU cases, so maybe there's a reason Carisi has been placed in a position with low expectations.

To Rafael's disappointment, though, the insult doesn't appear to land.

"Maybe," is all Carisi says, accompanied by a spirited shrug. "A crime's a crime, isn't it? Feels like I'm doing the world a greater good putting away sick bastards over meth dealers, though – so maybe I'm lucky."

That doesn't sound like much of a career plan. It's ethical, but still flippant – and while it does cross Barba's mind that he's going to regret asking, the question leaves him anyway.

"What made you go into law to begin with, Carisi?"

The look Carisi gives him is almost surprising; his brow is furrowed, and his eyes seem narrower, somehow, as they focus solely on Barba's face – inspecting him, and with unforeseen determination.

"Same reasons you became a cop, I reckon. To help people. To make a difference. To give back."

It's over-earnest, but Barba would be lying if he said he wasn't the slightest bit impressed. While it's awfully presumptuous for Carisi to assert them as things Barba would understand, they're not bad reasons at all. And it just so happens that, in Rafael's case, they are about right.

But then Carisi's solemn edge is gone as quickly as it came. His tone is lighter, almost lyrical, while he adds, "Guess I could've done that if I stuck to being a priest, but all the sacrifices?" For emphasis, he raises his beer. "Wasn't for me."

"Right." Barba sports a dry smirk. "Becoming a lawyer instead of a priest – there's a joke in there."

"Hey, now. That's not what I meant."

"I'm not suggesting anything."

"Geez. You're tough to talk to, you know that?"

Apparently intent on continuing to rub Barba entirely the wrong way, Carisi really shouldn't look as surprised as he does when the detective shoots him a glare. His tone had been glib – an offhand comment, followed by a quick, breathy laugh, but Rafael isn't particularly amused.

"Nobody's making you sit here."

"I know," Carisi says, brows gravitating even further towards his hairline. "Sorry, I just – wanted to talk to you. Didn't get a chance earlier at the precinct."

"And why do you want to?"

"Don't you like knowing a bit about the people you're working with?"

"I know who I work with." He tips his head towards the crowd behind them, and though it's probably nowhere close to wherever Fin and Rollins have got to, he figures Carisi is at least capable of getting the idea. "They're a good team."

"I get it, I get it."

"No, I don't think you do, Carisi."

As the corner of his mouth twitches, downwards, the prosecutor lifts his hands. "Call me Sonny—"

"I'm not going to call you Sonny."

"—and it's okay you feel like this. I was expecting it."

"Expecting what, counsellor?"

The corner of Carisi's mouth twitches again, this time ambiguous. "Hostility."

If Rafael was the type to snort, he would. As it stands, he indulges himself in a weary scoff, gaze sliding back to the contents of his glass.

The ice has melted by now, and he feels perfectly within his rights to blame the watered-down scotch that awaits him on the prosecutor now fidgeting with their tie beside him. Or maybe he should simply order another one; talking to Carisi has been quite enough to make him feel like he deserves another drink.

"I'm not being... hostile."

"Sure feels like it," Carisi says. He presses the heels of his palms against the bar, jaw slack like he intends to go on. Instead, he reaches for his beer and nurses it.

It's bewildering; Carisi isn't leaving, but he isn't saying anything, either. He turns his head away from Barba, though, apparently deciding to focus on the television above the bar instead. If Carisi was ever giving him an opportunity to leave, this is it. And Barba does consider it: he should really slip away to find Fin and Rollins, if only to ask what the hold-up is with Amaro.

Yet he doesn't.

Rafael is a detective, beyond everything: he's sharply observant, keenly intuitive. The choice of words Carisi had employed stick out like a sore thumb, so he swallows, briefly, before following up.

"What do you mean when you say you expected it?"

Carisi tenses, first. His shoulders rise enough for it to be noticeable, and when he regards Barba again, he does so slowly, like he's not sure he should be looking to begin with. That crease in his brow returns.

"I'm not good at this," Carisi says, finally. He gestures between himself and Barba, loosely, with one hand. "First impressions... They don't tend to go well for me, but I guess I'm just hoping we can work together. You know?"

"You're still feeling out how to function with a new team," Barba states, matter-of-factly. That's what he's hearing, anyway, but Carisi interrupts before Barba can offer any further elaboration.

"Not just them. Actually, Liv – the Lieutenant – was pretty nice. Welcoming."

So it's like that. Against his better judgement, Barba's mouth creeps into a bitter breed of smile. This is something he should really have expected.

"You mean you're feeling out how to work with me."

"I studied you, right?" That's something Carisi had said before, of course, and Barba still doesn't know how to take it – but the notion becomes all the more disorientating when Carisi goes on, without missing a beat, "I admire you."

Now that's just unsettling.

Usually, when people are open about Barba's reputation preceding him, it's not for something so... positive. If being admired even is a positive thing, anyway, because he wouldn't be surprised if he's disillusioned the guy: never meet your heroes, kid.

Although, no; that's not what's happening here, is it? Barba is observant, and he notes Carisi talks about his studies in the past tense (understandably so) – but his admiration is a present thing, unaffected by the strained energy between them at the bar. Carisi hasn't given up yet, anyway. If he soldiers through difficult cases like he soldiers through difficult conversations, maybe SVU won't be so poor at accommodating him, after all.

Carisi, apparently disinterested in whatever response Rafael might feel like giving, turns his attention to polishing off the last of his drink. His head is tipped back, bottle grasped in one hand while he pours whatever's left of it straight down his throat; the long curve of it bobs again with the effort. Barba looks away, his eyes scanning the tables behind them from over his shoulder – and it takes him all of five seconds to locate the table Fin and Rollins are waiting at, apparently embroiled in debate regarding a drinks pitcher.

Maybe it's because Barba isn't showing it on his face, but Carisi is apparently unaware of how rattled he's made the detective. He seems unaware, too, of how heavy a statement like that is. To Carisi, it's a mere compliment between colleagues, and nothing more – which is lucky, because the only response Barba can think of supplying is the understated one he settles on.

"C'mon," Barba says, and he slides down from the barstool. He almost hesitates, though he ultimately decides to add, "Don't want to keep the others waiting."

It's acceptance via invitation – though Carisi must not realise that, because he's aware of Carisi merely saying, "Hang on a second." But the thing he's most aware of is the hand that suddenly seizes his shoulder. Carisi's grip is gentle, almost careful, yet still firm enough to capture even Barba's attention, a warm shock from being touched shooting up his spine (contact isn't usually something he invites).

In place of speech, he pauses, giving Carisi a questioning look.

The smile on Carisi's face is still one of inoffensive friendliness, even if there's a little less optimistic unawareness. A better word is... hopeful, maybe. He certainly sounds it when he speaks.

"Let me buy you another drink first, detective? Least I can do."

Barba's gaze flickers from Carisi to the scotch glass, and he realises he's not the only one of the two who can be observant. He'd intended to leave it there, thanks to the ice-water diluting the burn of its flavour – and he wonders if Carisi realises he's to blame for that. In a manner of speaking.

He spares one last glance to the other cops, yet they're now obscured by a group of men in Yankees shirts surrounding the table in front of them.

Before he moves to retake the barstool beside Carisi's, he smiles – and it's small, but for the first time around this guy, it's genuine.

"You know, if you wanted to make a good first impression, that's all you needed to say."


End file.
